


The different shapes of a bull pup

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Birthday Fluff, Birthday Presents, Fangirls, Gen, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Short & Sweet, mentioned - Freeform, puppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 21:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13280481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: Watson has a bull pup...actually, he has several. Little birthday story that I hope will make you smile.





	The different shapes of a bull pup

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KnightFury](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=KnightFury).



> Disclaimer: obviously I don’t own a thing. A.N. Happy birthday, my dear Holmes!!...Ooops, I meant Knightfury ;D but really, he’s so knowledgeable on canon he might as well be. Many many happy returns, my dear. Hope you’ll like this!

It happened often with a certain kind of clients. Specifically young, female, and avid readers of my stories, who would consult Holmes at the first hint of a mystery in their lives. Once my friend had lifted their troubled spirits by assuring them that he’d take the case, and sometimes even when he refused to take it, directing them to someone else better equipped to solve their problems – dog catcher, doctor, or other – they would invariably look around.

Before they said their goodbyes, some hesitantly, some excitedly, would say, “Sorry to ask, but…where’s your bull pup, doctor Watson? Well, bulldog by now, I suppose…”

My reply was invariably, “I apologise, that’s just a metaphor I was used to. It was my first story, so I wasn’t yet as experienced in the ways of writing and it slipped past my editor. It simply meant that I can have a bit of a temper – you know, like a dog which you don’t want to cross, lest he decide your bones would make a fine addition to his collection.”

They would chuckle, apologise for the misunderstanding, assure me I was indeed a brilliant writer, and depart. I never understood their obsession with my supposed pet, to be honest.      

The small misdirection was necessary, though. It was lingo I was used to, indeed. Just not about my temper, but about my gun. While nobody would be shocked that a former soldier owned a weapon, I was afraid that some of these women might read between the lines once given the key to it.

“Fair warning: I have a firearm and am still not entirely used to peace, so try to not startle me if you don’t want to risk a bullet” was definitely necessary if one meant to enter a cohabitation. But it did not give the best impression of a man. I didn’t want our clients to think I was – or at least had been – a dangerous lunatic with a hair-trigger.   

Frankly, how our clients expected me to properly take care of a pet while working as a doctor – job prone to emergencies on its own – and still being Holmes’ faithful companion in his investigations, I have no idea. I loved that life, make no mistake. But sometimes I felt like I could barely take care of myself. I’d come back from work, be dragged on a case, and come back home almost too tired to eat. When would I be walking a dog or even just regularly feeding him in the brilliant chaos that was our life? While Mrs. Hudson was accommodating in the extreme, she  would not – and should not – be prevailed upon to consistently take care of someone else’s pet.

There was a reason that Toby was still with Mr. Sherman and Holmes only loaned him at need, instead of trying to persuade the man to sell him the dog. The consulting detective certainly bonded with Toby enough that in different circumstances, he would have loved having him at his side permanently. It was hard to resist that funny-looking muzzle.

He also liked the dog enough to realise he’d suffer if not properly cared for, though, and that Mr. Sherman, if peculiar, would never leave him or any other animal of his private collection untended. So borrowed Toby was. And if occasionally my friend asked for him outside of cases, just because his company was delightful, well, Toby didn’t complain.       

Eventually, of course, we both retired. Our professions were demanding and, in Holmes’ case, downright dangerous. Technically, as a doctor I was at risk too, but I had measures that would minimise the risk of contagion, while criminals required much more than a thorough wash and disinfection to be warded away.

We needed to find new ways (or in my case, old ones – I just love writing) to fill our days. And my old friend decided to help out with that. He always visited me for my birthday, of course. Sometimes I would go down to Sussex if I couldn’t stand the rapid changes of these days anymore. On this particular birthday, though, he didn’t come alone.

Following behind him was a pudgy, bright-eyed, fawn…bull pup. I couldn’t help it. I answered his smile with a chuckle of my own. “And what’s the name of this adorable fellow, my dear?” I wondered, pointing at it.

“He doesn’t have one yet. I wouldn’t want you to grow bored, so I thought it was time to finally make your old quip come true in the most literal of senses. He’ll keep you well entertained…he’s a very smart puppy. Housebroken already, of course, I wouldn’t put you through even more messes than I already have,” Holmes replied, with a half-grin.

I looked around, searching for inspiration. I’d never been very good with names. There was a reason if the aliases I gave our clients in my stories, to protect their privacy, half the time used the same first names. My eyes fell on my bag. I might technically be retired, but the habit of keeping a very well stocked first aid kit packed and ready was too entrenched to lose. “Come here, then, Gladstone…” I said, crouching down to my new companion’s level. On a whim, I added, “…III.”

“Why third?” my friend asked, raising a surprised eyebrow, while the pup ran in my arms and started licking me with enthusiasm.

“So if any fan meets me, I can pretend that he’s the descendant of the pup I had at Baker Street,” I explained, giggling because of Gladstone’s affection.

“Watson!” Holmes asked, mock-outraged. “Are you saying that you would purposefully deceive your admirers?”

“Mislead, old boy. And you can drop the act, we both know this is what you gave me Gladstone for, because I’ve always been frustrated by having to correct people about it,” I replied.

“You caught me. You’re becoming better at deducing my motives, my dear,” my friend said.

“I learned from the best,” I countered, shrugging. And that was exactly the moment Gladstone chose to nip at Holmes’ heels.

“Gladstone, no! We’re friends already!” the former sleuth complained, taking a step forward in an attempt to escape the puppy. I couldn’t help it. I laughed again.  

 


End file.
